


Back to Normal

by UnprincipledAddict (MyDesign)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Happiness and Angst, But not specifically written that way, Gen, Johnlock if you want it to be, M/M, One Shot, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 19:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10342824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyDesign/pseuds/UnprincipledAddict
Summary: What if Sherlock had come back earlier?  Before John's grief could turn to anger and before he could decide to move on with his life.  When there was still a chance for everything to go back to normal.Takes place about 6 months after The Reichenbach Fall.





	

===

 

Not all days were so bad.

 

Some days, John went to the shops. He stopped at the bank, maybe even treated himself to lunch somewhere more than a mile from home.  

 

Sometimes he picked up shifts at the surgery, the mundane and depressing medical offices offering a welcome distraction from...everything else.

 

This was a bad day though.

 

It was no surprise to be honest, as days that John visited his therapist usually were counted among the worst of the bad days.

 

It seemed a bit counter-intuitive, didn't it? Wasn't visiting a therapist supposed to help? Not make things worse?

 

But Ella was full of unwanted advice and loved to dredge up all the things that John spent the between days working so hard to bury. And what was worse, the repeat hints that John should start to _move on._  

 

John snorted aloud as he walked. Move on. Ella should _move on_ to a professional she was actually good at.

 

He was beginning to give serious thought to never going back to Ella's office when the end of his walking cane caught a crack in the sidewalk, wrenching him from his thoughts. He stumbled in his sudden loss of balance, arms flailing helplessly for something to catch himself on. A woman passing in the opposite direction reacted quickly to help steady him, but he straightened up, shrugged her off, and kept walking, mumbling something vague about being fine.

 

He glared at his cane and his stupid leg. Yet another thing Ella was wrong about. Sure, John hadn't needed his cane when Sherlock was alive, but he hadn't needed a _therapist_ when Sherlock was alive either. That didn't mean that the throbbing in his leg was all in his head, it just meant that he wasn't getting as much exercise as he had with Sherlock. If John took to jogging every day, he probably wouldn't need the cane. That's all. Why does Ella have to think everything wrong is in his head?

 

John leaned against the door as he fished his key out of his pocket. At least Greg hadn't been treating John like some sort of wounded animal since Sherlock died. Sure, he'd tried to at first, but Lestrade was more perceptive than Sherlock ever gave him credit for and caught on pretty quickly to the fact that John didn't want to be coddled.

 

Every couple of weeks, John would meet up with Greg for a pint and to watch with half-interest whatever match was on the screens at the pub. Greg did most of the talking, which John appreciated, going on about whatever cases he'd been working on, sometimes inviting John's opinion as a medical professional and definitely not as the closest thing to Sherlock Holmes they could get. Eventually their meetings would devolve into silence and feigned interest in whichever team happened to have fewer points. Greg would excuse himself on the grounds of getting back to work, the two men shaking hands and parting like two old friends. The meetings were awkward and really rather pointless, but John appreciated them. He appreciated Greg's attempts to give John some semblance of normalcy in his life.

 

John hung his jacket on a hook just inside the door of 221B Baker Street with only a slight glance at the empty hook next to it. Leaning heavily on his cane, he started up the long steps towards the flat.

 

Far from the normalcy that Greg Lestrade attempted to provide in John's life had been Philip Anderson. In the first weeks after Sherlock's death, Anderson would call John every couple of days. First there were apologies, followed by tear-filled declarations of Anderson's own guilt and role in Sherlock's death. John could go on autopilot well enough in conversations to last through the calls, until Anderson's guilt-riddled confessions gave way to paranoia and conspiracy. Having somehow convinced himself that Sherlock had survived his dive from the roof of Bart's hospital, Anderson would call John with whatever new and ridiculous theory he had for Sherlock's survival, desperate for someone to share in his misplaced hope that Sherlock was still alive.

 

"He died," John had once again said to Anderson a few days earlier. "I was there, I saw him fall."

 

"Yes, but you didn't see him land!" the overly excited voice at the other end of the line started. "I read the reports! You said that he insisted _more than once_ that you stay standing in that _exact_ spot. For what reason if it weren't for wanting you to not see something??? Now I have a theory-"

 

Anderson's voice in his ear had dulled to an annoying hum as John had - not for the first time - felt building up inside of him a tremendous anger and resentment. A desire to lash out at the stupid man on the other end of the phone line, to shout at him and blame him. John could feel that rage grow inside him like a seed, resentment at Anderson and Donovan for ensuring that Moriarty's ridiculous plan to destroy Sherlock's reputation would succeed. How _anyone_ , especially people who had seen first hand all of the good that Sherlock had done for people, could possibly believe that Sherlock was anything but exactly what he said he was...

 

John hated Anderson for wanting to put that doubt about Sherlock's death into his mind, to even _suggest_ that there was any way that Sherlock could have survived the fall. Doubt most certainly wasn't a luxury that John was going to allow himself to have. If life was going to force him to go through the stages of grief over the death of his best friend, then he was sure as hell going to skip the denial part.

 

John decided to stop answering the phone after that.

 

He reached the top of the stairs and caught his breath in front of the door into the flat. It wasn't latched, but John honestly couldn't tell you if he'd pulled it shut on his way out that morning or not. Mrs.Hudson had left earlier that week for a long vacation, leaving John alone in the building with no real concerns for things like _closing doors_ or _tidying up_. "Some time away from London with family," Mrs.Hudson had said. A chance to "get away from it all for a bit." John briefly wondered if he would have preferred some time away as well, a visit to Harry maybe.

 

The answer there was a decided _No_.

 

John pushed through the door to the flat and took two uneven steps in. As suddenly as if he'd been punched in the gut, he jerked to a stop.

 

Standing there with his back to John, stood Sherlock.

 

Sherlock.

 

Standing in 221B.

 

 _Alive_.

 

He was wearing one of his typical black suits, both hands thrust into his pockets as he looked out of the window at the street below. He turned his head to look back at John over his shoulder before turning completely towards him. He smiled.

 

"Hello, John."

 

John's cane clattered to the floor as he gripped the doorframe with white knuckles. "Jesus, Sherlock!" he blurted out the words faster than his brain could process what was happening. " _Jesus!_ You're-"

 

"Not dead?" Sherlock finished for him. He picked up a piece of unopened mail from the desk and casually glanced at it before tossing it back down on the stack of envelopes. "It appears not."

 

"But I...I saw you," John sputtered. "Your funeral...I..." He dropped his hands to his sides, fists clenching and unclenching, eyes widening, a thousand complicated emotions crossing his features with each word. "I thought you were dead," came out as a harsh whisper. "All this time."

 

Sherlock took a few steps towards him, hands raised defensively. "Now, John, I know you're probably upset and possibly more than a little angry with me, but if I could just exp-"

 

John lunged forward and threw his arms around the taller man's shoulders, pulling him into a crushing hug. "Oh my God, Sherlock," John practically shouted into his ear, breath ragged with excitement. "Oh my God!"

 

After a moment of bewildered uncertainty about what to do with his arms, Sherlock patted John lightly on the back. "You're not...angry with me?" he asked, voice straining past the vice-like grip of the embrace.

 

John pushed Sherlock away to arm's length, fingers digging into the other man's arms. "Are you taking the piss?!" he exclaimed, grin so big that it threatened to split his face in half. "I just found out that my best friend in the whole world _isn't dead!_ Why on _earth_ would I be angry?!" 

 

Sherlock smiled a real, genuinely relieved smile back at him. "Well, if you can't think of any reasons, I certainly won't give you any." Prying his arms out of John's grip, he moved to look around the flat. "I'm relieved to see that you didn't change things while I've been away."

 

"Oh, well..." Suddenly self-conscious of his less than stellar housekeeping skills over the last months, John quickly stacked a few plates and bowls with the remains of the better part of a week's worth of takeaway that were on the coffee table and took them to the kitchen sink. "I rather liked things as they were," he said slowly. "I didn't think anything needed changed."

 

"You _did_ think your flatmate was dead," Sherlock said, accompanied by the telltale squeak and leathery crunch of the detective settling into his old armchair. "Thought you might," he waved a hand vaguely, "box up some of my things. Or something."

 

John found two clean cups and poured tea for two for the first time in almost six months, crossing to set one on the side table next to Sherlock's chair. He settled into his own comfortable seat, looking the other man over for a long moment before taking a drink from his tea and setting it aside. "I can't believe you're still alive," he said finally. "These last months have been like...something like a fog, to be honest."

 

Sherlock settled back into his chair and steepled his fingers, so very _Sherlock_ gesture that John couldn't help but smile. "I imagine you have questions," the other man said. "For starters, how did I-"

 

John put up a hand to stop him. "Don't tell me. I don't care about how," he shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

 

Sherlock looked at him for a beat, then nodded slightly. "Very well then, do you want to know why?"

 

John laughed, a ringing and joyful laugh that hadn't been heard in 221B in what felt like ages. "Strangely enough, for all your eccentricities," he said affectionately, "I've never known you to do something without a good reason. I'm sure you had one this time as well."

 

"Moriarty."

 

John nodded. "That much was obvious." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and frowned, looking down at his hands folded in front of him. "Look, Sherlock, I don't know if you know this, but while there _is_ an official investigation ongoing, the public still thinks that you're a fraud."

 

"But you don't think I'm a fraud."

 

"Of course, I don't!" John responded a little too loudly. He took a deep breath to calm himself. "Never. Never that. I've never doubted you a day in my life."

 

Sherlock sighed and let his eyes wander around the flat. "I suppose there's nothing else to it then," he said, sounding only a little defeated. "I'll have to remain at Baker Street in the meantime, until the authorities sort this all out. I can continue my work uncovering Moriarty's network through my outside contacts. With Mycroft's resources, I should be able to function reasonably well from here."

 

"So Mycroft knows you're alive then?" John rolled his eyes as soon as the words were out of his mouth. "What am I saying, of course he knows."

 

"If there's anyone who knows the truth about anything, it's big brother." Sherlock picked at a spot on the arm of his chair with his fingernail. "How else could he be such a constant and persistent annoyance to me."

 

John grinned again, lifting his cup of tea to take a sip. "So sounds like things will be going back to normal," he said, quickly adding, "as normal we ever get around here."

 

Sherlock looked at him and beamed. "As normal as ever."

 

===

 

"Bored!" Sherlock declared predictably, only four days later.

 

"I thought you said things were going well with your 'projects,'" John said, not looking up from his crossword puzzle.

 

For someone who had previously gone days and even weeks at a time without finding any good reason to leave the apartment, Sherlock had fairly quickly given into his own brand of cabin fever.

 

John, however, was absorbing the lazy days at home, more relaxed and at peace than he'd felt in...possibly ever. All of Sherlock's little ticks that used to grate on John's nerves somehow didn't seem nearly so bothersome anymore. After months of deafening silence throughout the flat, the sounds that defined the very presence of Sherlock filled the space and brought back a general sense of home to the small area. The sounds of violin late into night, Sherlock's manic pacing and muttering, his tendency to pick a random object up and drop it with a thud back onto the surface. All of it brought life back into 221B.

 

Bounding across the sitting room, Sherlock practically jumped feet first into his chair, his open laptop threatening to fall from one of the arms onto the floor. "Oh, yes yes. It is going well," he conceded in a voice only moderately filled with whining, "but everyone else is out having fun while I'm cooped up in here."

 

"Look, I know patience isn't one of your strongest suits," John folded his newspaper on the arm of his chair and tilted his head at the other man, "but once you and Mycroft have worked out this whole thing with Moriarty, your name will be cleared and things will really go back to normal. You said yourself that it's still too dangerous now."

 

"Bah," Sherlock replied, obviously unhappy with John's statement but unable to argue with it. "At least when I was pretending to be dead, I was able to go out and actually _do_ things." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a look of hurt flash across John's face. "I don't mean," he quickly tried to doubleback on his words. "You know what I meant."

 

John nodded, forcing a small smile. Not a lot had been said about exactly why Sherlock had decided to come back when he did, before his work uncovering Moriarty's network was finished, but John had decided three days earlier that it didn't really matter. Best not to question the things that make you happy, he figured. He had assumed Mycroft had been keeping an eye on him over the months, and selfish though it may be, John liked to entertain the thought that maybe Sherlock really had come back early just for him.

 

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyebrows shot up under his fringe and his eyes went wide. Pulling his feet up on his chair, he rested his chin on his knees and looked every bit like he'd just had one of his self-declared brilliant ideas. " _You_ could go out and have fun for us," he said.

 

"Pardon?" John raised an eyebrow, tea stilled on its way to his mouth.

 

"Call up Lestrade," Sherlock gestured towards John's phone. "Offer to help with a case."

 

John snorted. "What help could _I_ be on a case?" He took a drink and rested the mug on his leg.

 

"Well none, obviously," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's why you'll text me the details of the case and any relevant photos."

 

"I can't just show up at a crime scene and start taking pictures with my camera phone!"

 

"Then be clever about it," Sherlock said, exasperated. "I'll solve the case, you tell Lestrade how it was done, and we all get to have our fun."

 

"No one is going to believe that I'm clever enough to solve a case."

 

"I'll dumb it down for you, leave out the really detailed bits. Broad strokes."

 

John gave him a skeptical look. Sherlock seemed really set on this idea, almost bouncing in his seat in anticipation of being able to once again get back to his normal work. John still wasn't convinced the idea would even work and opened his mouth to further argue against it when almost on cue, Sherlock seemed to know exactly what to say.

 

"Please, John? I need this."

 

John considered Sherlock for a long moment, balled up in his chair, close enough that John could reach out and touch him if he wanted. Only a few days ago, he had thought this man dead. His best friend, gone from this earth forever, never to return.

 

But the universe had other plans and here he was, the same nervous ball of energy, rocking on his heels in his dressing gown and bare feet. The miracle John had asked for at the cemetery, alive and in person. The relief and gratitude that John felt towards the universe for bringing this strange and wonderful friend back to him was so full and real inside him that it seemed like almost a tangible thing taking root in his chest. How could he deny him anything now when not even a week ago, he'd never thought it possible that things could ever go back to normal.

 

"All right, I'll call Lestrade."

 

===

 

Three days later, Greg had called John and invited him along to a crime scene. John had called Lestrade after his conversation with Sherlock a few days earlier, offering his help as a medical professional and "former sometimes co-consulting detective." Lestrade hadn't seemed keen on the idea until John started playing up an apparent and sudden need to "go out and do things," as per his therapist's instructions.

 

Lestrade lifted the crime scene tape, letting John duck under before following behind him. "You seem like you're feeling...better," Greg said cautiously. "I'm surprised you wanted to come out for a case, to be honest. But it's good to get out more, yeah?"

 

"Ah...yes, definitely better," John replied  vaguely, looking at the charred remains of a house fire in front of them. "Good to get out."

 

With all the difficulty of the world, John was making a conscious effort to not act in _too_ good spirits around Greg, as the other man had seen him barely a week ago in one of his normal depressive slumps before Sherlock's return. John had attempted to make a case for letting Lestrade in on the whole Sherlock-Being-Alive thing, but Sherlock was swift to shut that down on the grounds that once the Deputy Inspector had a pint or two in him, he would tell anyone who would listen all sorts of classified information.

 

"Absolute rubbish at keeping a secret. Not an option," had been Sherlock's final say on the matter.

 

It was only at the last second when he'd stepped out of his taxi at the crime scene that John had realized his personality having gone a complete 180 from only a week ago would be more than slightly suspicious. If he came skipping up to Lestrade now like all was right and great with the world, he would probably find 221B the target of another drugs bust, only this time to keep _John_ out of Sherlock's old stash.

 

The case, as it turned out, was right up Sherlock's alley and John regretted that the other man was unable to be there in person to enjoy it in his own way. John made quick work of texting Sherlock the details, typing with one hand with his phone half concealed in the pocket of his jacket. When he thought no one was looking, he took pictures of the relevant bits and sent them along.

 

**Check the older body for signs of ringworm. SH**

 

 **Too badly burned. Can't.** John didn't bother asking what ringworm could possibly have to do with two bodies found dead in a fire.

 

**Ask if anyone in the family recently returned from Argentina. SH**

 

**Too specific. Broad strokes, remember? Dumb it down.**

 

**Already did. Ask. SH**

 

John sighed. He knew this wouldn't work. He moved to stand next to Lestrade, opening and closing his mouth three times before finally giving in to ask as nonchalantly as he could manage, "Has anyone in the family recently traveled abroad?" He swallowed nervously. "South America, maybe?"

 

Lestrade looked at him like John had picked a very strange time to begin speaking Swahili. Still, he flipped a couple pages in his notepad to check his notes and answered, "The daughter-in-law, Karen, returned from Chile two days ago."

 

"Ahh, ok," John raised his eyebrows and nodded, trying his best to pretend that information meant something to him. "Excuse me," he said, stepping away to pull out his phone. Greg eyed him out of the corner of his eye as he turned back to the forensics team.

 

 **Daughter-in-law. Chile. Returned 2 days ago.** John texted quickly, still completely baffled as to what this had to do with the two burned corpses lying a few feet away.

 

**Lies. Argentina. SH**

 

**And?**

 

**The belt. Obviously. SH**

 

**What?**

 

**The belt! The belt! It was the son. SH**

 

**The son what?**

 

**Are you really this thick? It was the son. Tell them you solved it. SH**

 

John started to type a reply and gave up, quickly dialing Sherlock's number instead.

 

"Yes," came the exasperated reply. "Did you tell Lestrade yet? I'm hungry. Bring Chinese."

 

"How am I supposed to explain something I don't even _understand_?" John whispered loudly into the phone, looking around to make sure no one was close enough to hear what he was saying. "The son was the murderer? How did you possibly get to that from from a couple of pictures and a trip to South America?"

 

Sherlock let out such a loud and exaggerated groan of impatience that John had to pull the phone away from his ear. "Are we still on this? Really?" he said. "I have an intense craving for wonton soup. Hurry up and come home."

 

"Well then tell me how it was done and how you figured it out and I'll bring you your bloody soup!" John said through gritted teeth. "And explain it slowly."

 

Five minutes later, John was standing with no less than twenty pairs of eyes on him, face so red he could practically feel the heat radiating from his cheeks.

 

"You figured that out from _what_?" Lestrade blessedly broke the uncomfortable silence that had followed John's attempt at a convincing deduction. "Argentinian leather and a specific type of ringworm?"

 

"Um," John's eyes darted around the crowd nervously, "yes? I mean, that's my theory anyways. In case you were wondering. Which maybe you weren't, but um...well, yes. There you go. The son."

 

"Ooh, do we have a _new_ freak to come try to show us up all the time?" Sally Donovan spoke up. She'd become considerably less scathing towards Sherlock's memory since his death, but that apparently hadn't put an end to her always-so-pleasant personality. John longed for the day that Sherlock would be able to leave the flat and things could go back to normal, with Sherlock the center of attention instead of himself.

 

"I guess it's at least worth looking into," Lestrade shrugged. He pulled out his phone and made a call.

 

===

 

A little over two hours later, John hung his jacket on the empty hook next to Sherlock's. The familiar black coat another sign that things were getting back to normal, he couldn't help but smile and made his way up the stairs. He pushed the door to the flat open with his knee, shifting the bag of Chinese food from one arm to the other.

 

Sherlock jumped up from his seat on the couch, dressing gown flapping behind him like a cape as he leapt over the coffee table to take the bag of takeaway from John and start digging through it. "About time. How'd it go?" he asked, only half looking like he was actually prepared to listen to an answer.

 

"You were right, as always," John said, taking a seat on the couch next to Sherlock and pulling the remainder of the Chinese food in front of himself. "Lestrade had them pick up the son and he started confessing before they even fully got him into questioning. Just like you said, a real Norman Bates nutter."

 

As they ate, John launched into details about what he'd encountered at the crime scene, the details of the case, and what he'd heard from Lestrade after they brought the son in. Sherlock kept his eyes glued to the trashy television program he'd been watching on the TV, only sometimes acknowledging that he was listening at all through a series of vague and non-committal grunts.

 

"I have to say, I don't know how you do it," John said a bit later as he pushed the half empty cartons away from himself, standing to go to the kitchen for tea. "I didn't make nearly as big of a spectacle of myself when I gave them your deductions and I _still_ felt like they were going to have me committed right then and there."

 

"You get used to it," Sherlock said, using the tip of his spoon to poke at the floating wontons in his soup. "Sometimes it can be _such_ a burden being so much more intelligent than everyone else." He stood and plopped his soup container down on the coffee table with a force that sloshed some of the liquid over the edge and onto the table. He crossed the room to plop down in his chair in much the same fashion.

 

John brought Sherlock's mug of tea from the kitchen and sat it next to him. "It was rather fun though," John admitted, looking down at him. "I didn't realize how much I'd missed it. Being out there, solving crimes like we did, before."

 

Sherlock frowned, crossing his arms across his chest like a petulant teen. "I wish I could have been there myself."

 

"Me too," John said. "Hopefully you'll be able to go out soon. I don't know how long I can pretend to be as smart as you."

 

"Indeed," Sherlock huffed. "Frankly, I'm surprised anyone actually believed you today. We'd better be careful or next time Scotland Yard will show up to arrest _you_."

 

"It might be worth it to see their faces when they get here and find Sherlock Holmes alive and well at Baker Street." John ruffled Sherlock's hair for no more reason than because he could.

 

"I'll have to remember not to wear pants that day," Sherlock replied, straight faced.

 

With John's fingers still wrapped in his curls, Sherlock looked up at the man standing over him and after a beat, they burst into a fit of giggles. Later on, John wouldn't be able to tell you what exactly he was laughing about, but he laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks and his stomach hurt too much to stand, sinking to his knees next to Sherlock's chair as they laughed.

 

===

 

The next afternoon, John stepped out of a cab in front of the flat, handing the driver his fare as he checked his phone to see if Sherlock had responded to his earlier text about dinner. John was surprised to see a certain tall, slender man standing at the bottom of the steps into the building, umbrella as present as ever despite the sunshine.

 

"Mycroft," John greeted him cheerfully. "Didn't expect to see you here."

 

"John." Mycroft's return greeting didn't match John's congenial tone. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed in a thin line. 

 

John moved past him to unlock the door, looking back to glance over Mycroft's less than cheery expression. "Is there a problem?"

 

"How are you feeling, John?"

 

John frowned. "Good. I'm...good? Great? Absolutely top?" He stepped through the door, leaving it open for Mycroft to follow. "Why? Is something wrong? Are you here to see Sherlock?" he asked, taking his jacket off and hanging it next to Sherlock's.

 

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, his brow pushing between his eyes even further.

 

"Yes, Sherlock," John laughed. "You know. Your brother? Did something happen? Have you made progress with Moriarty?"

 

"John," Mycroft said slowly. "Sherlock is dead."

 

John blinked once. "No," he said equally as slowly. "He's upstairs. In the flat."

 

Mycroft spoke carefully. "John, Sherlock died six months ago. He jumped from a roof." Even slower. "You were there. You saw him."

 

John stared at him dumbfounded. "You're serious?" he asked. "He told me that you knew." John rolled his eyes. That would be just like Sherlock to not tell his own brother that he was still alive. "Sherlock's not dead, Mycroft. He's been hiding out in the flat for a week now." As if on cue, John heard the beginnings of a mournful violin solo coming from up above them. He nodded confidently and pointed to the ceiling above him. "Hear that? That's Sherlock playing the violin right now."

 

"John, I don't hear-" Mycroft started, but John was already away and bounding up the steps.

 

John pushed through the door of the flat and stumbled over something on the floor, catching himself with the door handle. "Sherlock, Mycroft is here. You said that he knew-"

 

John stopped. Sherlock wasn't in the sitting room, his violin lying in its case under the window.

 

Mycroft stepped up behind him. He moved to place a hand on John's shoulder, but John moved out of his reach suddenly, heading towards the kitchen.

 

"Sherlock!" John called, half jogging down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom. "Sherlock, where are you?" He opened the door and looked in. The bed was neatly made and everything was in its place on the shelves, but Sherlock wasn't in his room either.

 

John turned and knocked the back of his hand against the bathroom door. "Sherlock, you in there?" he called through the glass, only waiting a beat before turning the handle and looking in.

 

"John, we need to talk," Mycroft called from the other room. John pushed past him into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time up to his own bedroom.

 

"Sherlock, you'd better not be in my bloody room!" John yelled up the steps ahead of him. "We've talked about this!"

 

Downstairs, Mycroft let out a long sigh and looked around the sitting area. There were uneaten takeaway on most surfaces, including a full container of wonton soup and pint of fried rice on the coffee table that he greatly suspected were the origins of a mildly rancid smell that filled the flat. The desk was piled high with unopened mail and while Sherlock's old leather armchair sat empty, there were five full mugs of cold tea on a side table next to it.

 

Slow footsteps behind him signaled the return of John from upstairs, who entered the room slowly and in a sort of stupor.

 

"I don't understand," John said. "I just heard the violin a minute ago. He couldn't have left that fast, he said it wasn't safe to go out yet."

 

"John." Mycroft spoke far more carefully and delicately than he was accustomed. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small black rectangle. "One of our data analysts contacted me earlier today. I was told-"

 

"That's Sherlock's mobile," John pointed at the smart phone in Mycroft's hand. "How did you get it?"

 

"We recovered it," the other man replied simply, "from the roof of the hospital. It's been with our analysts since Sherlock's death. I was told that it had started receiving a large number of text messages over the last week." He held it towards John. "From you."

 

"Yes, I was..." John trailed off, confused. He took the phone and opened the messaging app. The inbox contained all of the texts that John had sent to Sherlock since his return the week before. Texts asking about dinner, the pictures from the crime scene, questions about the grocery list, a few funny pictures he'd found online, his side of a couple late night conversations they'd had as they lie in their respective beds early into the morning. It was all there in the inbox.

 

But the sent folder, that wasn't right. According to the phone, the last text was sent almost six months ago. Just one word, sent to Mycroft, dated the day Sherlock jumped from the roof of Bart's hospital.

 

Mycroft put his hand on the phone to take it back. "I know you've been through a lot, John, but maybe you should consider..."

 

Any words Mycroft said after that weren't heard by the other man, for in that moment, John Watson's world came falling down around him. 

 

Again.

 

He could see Sherlock standing on that rooftop.  Could see him as he tumbled to the concrete far below.  He could feel the utter fear, the anguish, the grief of that moment.  Over and over, in front of his eyes.  A reoccurring nightmare that plagued him even when he was awake.

 

His eyes scanned the room frantically, desperate for any sign that Sherlock had actually been there over the last week, that he hadn't imagined his best friend was still alive. 

 

But there it all was, spelled out in front of him. The cold cups of tea crowded on the side table, the uneaten takeaway, the two broken strings on Sherlock's long unplayed violin.

 

The events of the past week played through John's mind. Eating alone. One cup of tea always untouched. A CD of sorrowful sounding violin solos that he'd found tucked at the back of a shelf. The empty hook downstairs.

 

John put his face in his hands.

 

Of course the hook would be empty. Sherlock was wearing his coat when he jumped off the roof of Bart's, it would've been covered in blood.

 

The room spun around John and he felt lightheaded, dizzy and more than a little nauseous. He crouched, head in his hands, and let out a low wail. "No, no, no! This can't be right."

 

"I'm sorry. I truly am," Mycroft said, looking at John with the closest thing to pity that he knew. "But Sherlock is dead. You know he is."

 

John's eyes stung and it was getting progressively harder to breathe. As he sank to his knees next to the coffee table, he flashed back to the evening before, drinking himself halfway to a blackout and sobbing on the floor next to Sherlock's chair.  

 

"Perhaps you might consider moving away from Baker Street," Mycroft suggested, not without kindness. He thought about placing a hand on John's shoulder in what he assumed would be a comforting gesture, but thought better of it and instead left without another word.

 

John stayed there on the floor for what could have been minutes or hours or maybe weeks. Head throbbing, chest tight. His heart was destroyed in a way that it had only been once before, as he was pulled away from Sherlock's lifeless body six months earlier.

 

One hand pressed against his eyes and forehead, he pushed against the floor with the other in an effort to stand. His fingers brushed something cold and metallic.

 

Oh, his cane.

 

Right where he'd dropped it in the doorway a little over a week ago.

 

Suddenly, his right leg throbbed and ached as badly as it ever had and it was all he could do to push himself to a standing position. Leaning heavily on the cane for support, he stared at the empty leather chair across from his own. A layer of dust covered the unused seat.

 

Sherlock was dead and John was alone.

 

Everything really was back to normal.

 

===


End file.
